Stacey Levine - Dra-

Closer now to that office, she entered a bright hallway, this one lined with glass cases containing various color annuals and journals, attractive pictures on their covers of employees who were now dead. At the Employment Office, she thought, growing nervous, competition would be rough, and she might be denied jobs, gems of jobs, because of deficits in her character she had failed to resolve.

But for now, she continued to walk. Despite the silence of these halls, there were, she knew, thousands upon thousands of employees everywhere, not visible now, but hard at work instead, gathered in small stifled work centers, basements, and sub-basements; night stations, corridors, and portable and permanent work areas; work vaults, niches for special projects, and training hutches connected by hallways just inches across that stuttered in one direction then another before widening into empty classrooms lined by shelves full of sheets and old surgical equipment.

Hundreds of feet down the hall, she made out a cluster of people walking toward her. Over minutes, as they drew closer, she discerned that they were new hires in training, among them an agile, thin man with an unusually thick head of hair who spoke to the group rapidly and enthusiastically. Against his chest he held something small and dark.

Folding her hands, moving to the wall, Dra— huddled, waiting for the group to approach, and furtively she stared at the gesticulating Lecturer, who, as he passed, raised the dark object over his head with his hands, calling out gaily over his shoulder, “A puppy! Last of its kind, or almost!”

Indeed it was a small animal that the Lecturer held, perhaps as some kind of instructional aide; and with avid gestures, he exclaimed variously, smacking the animal’s flank, describing the ways the world tended to open and flower for those who had made firm, intelligent choices in life, adding that superior nutrition was always available to people who were already healthy. He mentioned exercise, then added how difficult it was for most people to resist gentle or even violent physical touch, and how, in the end, everyone succumbed to it.

As the group looked quietly on, the Lecturer, shifting his moist, avid eyes, discussed general rules of the workplace and the procedural errors that employees most commonly made — none of these errors really being, he explained, minor: each told significantly of the individual’s conflicts and weaknesses, so they were apt starting points for deep analysis.

“This afternoon,” the Lecturer went on, pulling on his stringlike tie, “I’m also going to tell you about success — that it does not exist, except in one small way, that is! All your lives, you see, you have achieved success in its basest form — by surviving. You’ve all survived by adapting so precisely to the environment that your identities have become lost. Identity slips away, you see.”

Smirking, blinking, the Lecturer then went on to explain house rules, hoisting the limp, sleeping dog into the air again, then he gave two definitions for the word “courage.”

“None of you need worry about what you call ‘success’ anymore,” he told the group. “What does that mean, anyway? As it turns out, most everyone does well, after all. You’ll have long-lasting jobs, a sense of safety, and storage space, too. Just stay alive, then you’ll see! Everything will happen like clockwork. Hasn’t it always been this way?” He sighed with what seemed a mixture of content and defeat.

“The threat of failure isn’t quite real, you know. But there are worse things.” He laughed unpleasantly. “Soon, you’ll have advanced on the job more quickly than you ever dreamed. Leisure time — that is, hours of your own to sit in a straight chair — you’ll have that too, when you’re older.” He handed the dog over to a student helper who affectlessly slipped the animal into a soft sling that hung at his side.

“Your lives will take shape before you realize it,” the Lecturer said, “and what will happen after that? Nothing, except some of the people you know will die. Years will pass, ill health will set in, but by then, life will be almost over anyway, right?”

Then the Lecturer began to describe an employee perquisite system so vast and effervescent that there was no other system to compare it to, he said, laughing again, and the students laughed too. One, a young man, shook his patchily haired head and said, “What did you mean just now, about success? What you said isn’t true. Success exists — look at me, I spent every day of my youth preparing for success, and now, I’ve got it! Nothing to sniff at, sir. How can you say success doesn’t exist?”

“Pretty easily,” grinned the Lecturer.

“But I am successful!” the young man, Russ, said angrily. “Look around you — all of us here have succeeded! We’re young, we’re bright, we’ve all been accepted into the hiring pool. We’re doing just as we should!”

“Ah! Can you tell me more about what you think you should be doing, Russ?” the Lecturer asked gently, touching his fingertips together. “Don’t censor yourself — express everything, please.”

Russ reddened. “Well, it’s not easy to succeed … but at the same time, everyone I know has done it,” he said. “When we apply ourselves, life gets better, you know — instead of feeling low, we feel proud, and so does everyone around us. So why not do it? From the start, I was a good candidate for success: I work efficiently, I’m good with my hands, and besides, I’m debt-free!” He grinned, looking around, shyly pleased that he had gained an audience.

The Lecturer chuckled, tucking his chin into his hand. “What do I care what you think? Should I say, ‘You’re an idiot,’ though you’re better off than me? Should I bother? The world is going to stay the same whether you’re burdened by awareness or not!”

“What are you talking about? I may be wrong,” Russ cried, “but I feel you’re insulting me!”

Eyes weary, the Lecturer dismissed the topic with his hand, and as Russ stared mutely and angrily after him, he led the group of trainees down the hallway, describing a political system completely invisible because ubiquitous. After this, he called out brightly, “Let’s press onward! Bound for the cafeteria we are, to receive instructions on meals and the washing of both head and shoulders!”

As the group moved passively along, Dra— noticed that one of them hung back and turned to stare at her, a tiny, red-faced woman with small red eyes whose face was somehow familiar, and somehow, from a distant place in her mind, Dra— recalled that the woman’s name was Nanny. Beyond all doubt, her name was Nanny, yet it was impossible for Dra— to remember how she knew this, or to remember anything else about this Nanny, who in these few moments only continued to stare steadily. Dra— lifted her hand toward Nanny in a lilting, halfhearted gesture then turned away; but unable to stop herself, she looked back once again at Nanny, who took several weak steps toward her as the Lecturer and group turned to watch.

Dra— tried again, and the effort was cinching, yet she could recall nothing about this woman besides the name, and so decided that she was probably confused, that this woman was not Nanny, but someone else — so many employees looked alike, anyway: irritated, raw-faced — and that would be a great relief. For she did not want to know the nearsighted, unpleasant-looking woman who was now stepping closer, scowling, squinting, emitting a flat “Hello!” and a dry, cloaklike scent like rats that made Dra— recall the gruesome sensation of being close to someone with little hope for escape.

And after a long minute, Nanny took another step, sniffing, blinking, and broke into a wide, strained smile that stretched the skin of her small face painfully, and lurching forward with a small kiss of greeting, she began to kiss Dra—’s hair, and the air all around her face, too, and a chirruping sound issued from her throat; it was a high sound, and difficult to like.